A: No. Maybe?
Q: Handwriting?
A: Bit shaky.
Q: Headaches, still? Would you say that you still retain the austerity and rigor which defined, to some extent, your early work?
A: I’ve moved on to a mode which is far more flamboyant.
Q: Do you take an adversarial position toward your audience?
A: No. No. Why does everyone keep—
Q: Numbness?
A: My toes, occasionally.
Q: Notice any new weird marks on your person? Scars? Moist spots? Stains?
A: Now that you mention it—
Q: What about anxiety? Paranoia? Itchiness?
A: My world is growing warmer. Less comfortable. Things catch fire. [Scribble, scribble, scribble.]
Q: Okay, well, that’s it for now.
A: Really; nothing else?
Q: Nope.
A: Because—
Q: I’ve turned it off.
A: Okay. Well I hope that was okay.
Q: You were perfection itself, Mr. Frobisher. Just great. My readership will love it.
A: Can you send me a copy when it—
Q: Count on it. Someone from the office will inform you of your results.
40
(THE GREAT PETULANCE)
“Who wants to begin?”
For reasons which elude me, I’ve been remanded into the company of a whole new Group.
Who are all of these new fellows? I don’t know a soul, but evidently, we deserve one another.
“Start us off, someone,” the admin says. “Janet? Miriam?”
“I’ll go,” says a man I don’t recognize who had, only a minute ago, edged another fellow out of the doorjamb in his haste to be the first into the room—to claim a seat in the circle as if it were the last in a game of musical chairs—and whose every gesture told the world he would be the first to speak. “And I’d just like to say this: that I am on to you.”
“On to me?” says the admin.
“You.”
“Meaning—”
“Meaning that I’ve seen what’s going on here and I’m taking measures to protect myself.”
The other fellows are still in pre-confluence-circle-mulling-around-mode here so there isn’t much of a response to this guy’s fervor, though I think I spy a couple of weary eye-rolls.
“Protect yourself from—”
“From you assholes. I know how you work.”
“Whoa there,” cautions the admin, “safe space.”
“I know what I know.”
“Who, even, are you?” asks a fidgety little woman.
“Who are you?” the man retorts. “That’s a question. I don’t know you either; are you one of them?”
“Let’s start over,” the admin says. “Make some introductions.”
“Fuck,” another woman says.
“You can’t fool me,” the first man reiterates, with a shrewd squint of self-satisfaction.
“Introduce yourself to the gang please, Harold.”
Harold releases a languorous looger into his empty coffee cup, folds his arms, says nothing.
“Harold is the Cryptographer,” the admin fills us in.
(“Hel-lo, Har-old.”)
“Fuck,” says the Woman-Who-Evidently-Swears-a-Lot.
“Miriam?”
(“Hel-lo, Mi-riam.”)
Miriam smiles.
The little woman now: “This is a joke. Day-in day-out I’m the only fellow here who is making any effort at all to establish parameters for decent behavior for our circle, and I don’t see why I always have to be the one who—”
“Janet,” the admin interrupts…
(“Hel-lo, Ja-net.”)
“Yes, Janet. I’m Janet. Janet, Janet, Janet.”
“Okay, Janet, what would you like to say,” encourages the admin.
Janet again: “I’d like to lodge a complaint. That—and it seems obvious—I’m doing the lion’s share of keeping order around here, following the rules to the letter and i-it’s, it’s like no one else is even trying.”
“I am the Minimalist,” Miriam now non-sequiturs softly, as if the admission costs her.
“Thanks, Miriam,” says the admin.
“We did you already,” says Harold the Cryptographer.
“You didn’t say what your field is yet, Janet,” the admin says.
“What does it matter? No one listens,” she announces to the listening room.
“Well what about you, Mr. Frobisher?” says the admin.
(“Hel-lo, Per-cy.”)
“What about me?”
“It’s time you introduced yourself.”
“Introduced myself?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“So—”
“So?”
“Go ahead.”
“Go ahead and—”
“Percy, just introduce yourself, and please stop repeating after me.”
“See, see?” exasperates Janet, “no one follows the rules. Not one of these dillweeds.” She reaches over to tap one of her collarbones twice with two fingers and look up at the ceiling where there is precisely nothing.
“Fuck,” says the Minimalist.
Janet shoves her chair back, gets up, and goes over to the table where the coffee urn is, and there she begins violently stacking the empty paper cups and arranging these small stacks into straight rows. “Slobs.”
“There is no need for aggression, Janet,” says a man I hadn’t even noticed who is slumped in his chair at my nine o’clock.
“This is John,” says the admin.
(“Hel-lo, Jo-hn.”)
“Hi,” says John. “I’m the clock on the wall.”
That said, he nods his head back onto his chest, closes his eyes, and while we are awaiting some clarification, instantly throbs his way, apparently, back into sleep.
“John is the Surrealist.”
“John is unresponsive,” says the Cryptographer.
“Fuck,” says the Minimalist.
“I’m with her, yeah: fuck,” says Janet.
“Now everyone, please…” entreats the admin.
“Incompetent shitheels,” says Janet.
“As I’ve already said, Janet,” the admin says, “this kind of response is not conducive to a creative environment.”
“I knew it,” Janet continues, “no one would help me; no one is ever able to help me. To move this project forward a single inch, and I still have to suffer the goddam indignity of—”
“Perhaps if you tell the circle about your work, Janet?” asks the admin.
“This bunch?”
“Try us,” smiles the admin.
“No one will understand.”
“Tell us anyway,” says the admin.
“I am the Programmer,” Janet says.
“Programmer?” I ask.
“Mr. Frobisher—”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Go on,” the admin says.
“I create executable instructions.”
“And what kind of instructions are you writing?”
“Fuck,” says Miriam.
“You said I had the floor here,” says Janet the Programmer, demonstrably at her wit’s end, “and I’ve barely gotten a word out.”
“Did you hear what Janet said, guys?” asks the admin. “Guys? We need to listen better.” The admin gets up and writes the word “LISTEN” on the whiteboard.
“We should, we totally should have some kind of system here for who gets to talk when, right? Isn’t that what normally happens in these—?”
“You mean like a—” starts the admin…
“Yeah. Exactly,” Janet the Prog
rammer finishes, getting up and grabbing one of the coffee cups from the stack on the table behind her, taking the time out to meticulously rearrange the stack again so each pillar contains the same number of cups. We watch. She returns to her seat and holds up the single cup. “This is the ‘Talking Cup,’ okay? I have the Talking Cup right now and so only I can speak.”
“Janet, it really is my job to decide how this goes,” (attempts the admin).
“I have the cup and you will have your turn in a minute.” (Janet.)
The Cryptographer, who had stopped paying attention awhile back, but has been, rather, whispering inscrutably to his device, startles at the outburst, scraping his chair backward on the linoleum. The Minimalist looks at the floor again, or never ceased doing so. The Surrealist is sleeping soundly. The admin waits patiently and you have to admire his poise in the face of such anarchy though these are exactly the scenarios they’ve trained for.
“Okay, Janet. Okay. You have the Talking Cup.”
She holds up her talisman, waving it at each of us for good measure, then says, pointedly: “Thank you. Now where was I.”
“Executable instructions,” I repeat.
“Percy—” starts the admin, “sorry, Janet, continue.”
“Don’t you see?” asks Janet. “If we don’t have the cup, we have nothing. Nothing. And I’m holding the cup, and the cup necessitates that I speak.”
“The cup doesn’t necessitate that you speak,” corrects the Cryptographer, “the cup designates that you can speak.”
“The cup is the last line of defense keeping us from chaos!” says Janet.
“Keeps us from chaos,” I concur.
“Nothing can keep you from chaos,” says John the Surrealist, awake once more and grinning inappropriately. “Chaos is the resting state of the universe, innit.”
“And why do you think that is, John?” prods the admin.
“Because pancake, pancake, pancake.”
“What the shit. I’m out,” says Janet the Programmer, rising.
“Part of the process,” explains the admin, patiently: “all part of the process. We say what’s on our minds. Let it out! A powerful method. Things are bound to get a little wild from time to time, and I know it can be frustrating, and you are right, Janet” (whose hand stops on its way to the doorknob), “we do need to try to the best of our abilities to follow some rules here so as to allow all creatives to feel safe and listened to—but this is a kind of controlled chaos, okay, a chaos which allows us to air our positions and unburden our creative faculties; prompt one another, and move the projects along. It’s the technique: the Ladder. And it’s been proven to work. Our track record is impeccable. Everything we do here at the Institute we do for a reason.”
“Obviously,” says the Cryptographer, “the ‘method.’ But what are you really trying to do; what you want is to find out what makes us tick—even steal some of those bright ideas of ours, maybe? Valuable ideas. Yeah: I think the only people who are profiting from this creative lab of ours are admins.”
The admin is shaking his head emphatically now. “Nobody is trying to steal anything, Harold. Not me. Not the Director. Not any of the admins. We are here to help.”
“Are you? Aren’t you, though? I know what I know,” he reiterates.
“I know what I know,” I say.
“Maybe we should call it a day,” the admin says. Adding: “We’ve done some good work here.” But the Programmer is already out the door and the Surrealist has gone back to sleep.
“Fuck,” says the Minimalist.
“Miriam?” says the admin.
“Fuck,” I repeat. This is a disaster.
41
(THE CHRISTENING BASIN)
This day kicks up the mightiest of the sandstorms yet. The sky around the metastructure vanishes in a wash of rust. A great brown blizzard, eradicating everything. It lasts for some twelve hours. Attempts are made to seal us in. Nothing in or out. Except the heat, which does not recognize the inside/outside distinction and will not be kept at bay. These storms are becoming more common; at least one a week. They aren’t the big kahuna we’ve been warned about, but still disruptive. As a result of the frequent, wind-induced brownouts, not only am I less productive, but my thinking takes on a dull morbidity. (Though I’m clear of mind once again as soon as the dusts clear.) I’m beginning to feel that there is a purpose to the periodicity of these storms. That is: I can only be expected to create so much, before the world and its whims require me to stop.
Inside the dome, another palm catches fire, this time outside of my flat. Burning embers and charred fronds rain down on the patio. The whole thing exploded in a matter of minutes. I had been watching it. There was hardly any buildup. One moment it is not in flames; the next it is engulfed. A three-story-tall torch. Some of the fellows wander over to watch as well. I see them from my balcony—looking upward at me—as the light dances across their features. The Mysterious Woman is there, but only for a moment. She barely even stops to look at the tree. Though she looks up at me looking at her, and I see her register this looking. Eventually the fire dies down, leaving the tree ashen, several black fronds still hanging down at wrong angles like the ribbing of a broken umbrella. It isn’t safe in here, in the Institute, I think, with so much paper about. I turn and walk back into the flat and sit on my bed to take fuller stock.
Worsening conditions aside, I am now continually watched, locked into a schedule, mandatory uniform, enforced diet, required, now, to contemplate an enforced sojourn. The restrictions are adding up. And what they add up to is an imprisonment. You would think that I am, at this point, a captive here. But I must also admit to having been a little cagey. A little sly. I have my own tricks, that is, my own sleights of hand and misdirections. Tbh the Institute knows a lot, but it does not know everything.
What I am saying is that, though I eat the colorful little foods from the segmented trays, though I attend the sessions, though I have been asked to forswear my old clothes, and though I will, assuredly, have to give my passport over to the Institute, I have made my own plans, and must now, in fact, work to maintain the appearance of normalcy. That is, while I wait for my papers to come back from Same Same–ing, the Institute’s schedule needs to be upheld. I’m a model citizen once again. It is a performative state.
But I’m getting better at it.
I/o/w, I forget sometimes, and just sink, unconsciously, into the act; into my performance. So, it is a full twenty minutes into my sponge bath when it occurs to me to ask myself why I submit to such things as being cleaned by someone. Such indignities!
(I’m not saying the sponge bath feels bad, per se, but there is some shame affiliated with the experience, certainly.)
The sponge is of the thick, soft species. Not one of those brittle little loofahs that the other admins sometimes employ and which we all despise. Because Miss Fairfax knows what feels good. She knows what I like—as a lover might. She’s paying close attention to my naked shoulders, sponging them in generous circles. The warm waters worm about me, filling-in-and-draining-from my clavicular hollows and other bodily trenches, unspooling downward into the tub where the rest of me is hidden beneath the creamy residue. While my admin cleans my body and treats my wounds—those paper cuts which now blight much of my torso—she speaks to me, low-like and soft.
“So what’s with all of this paper, Percy?”
I smack the soap out of her hand, playfully.
“Hey—”
She reaches in to fish it back out.
“Okay, Mr. Touchy.”
She rubs the soap on the sponge and just froths it up nice until the sponge is bursting with lather. Then the sponge goes to the top of my head where it is crushed out like ripe fruit, all the extracted froth flooding down upon me in a torrent, and I scrunch up my eyes. She adjusts the taps. The water’s warmth slowly colonizes the
rest of the tub in an outwardly moving perimeter.
“How does that feel?” she asks. “Temperature okay?”
I respond with a series of eye blinks, so she hands me a towel to dry my face.
“No more pain?”
“No. I mean: yes. The cuts.”
She rinses an arm of mine with a retractable hose attached to the bath’s main spigot, then moves on to the other arm.
“Stings? Here?”
I flinch, spasm, and send the soap flying again into the hollow-sounding water.
“Sorry!”
“What is it with you today, Mr. Frobisher?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” though, by way of explanation, I draw, squeakily on the vapored glass, one of these
:|
meaning not too much pain (though not none either) but it all runs together before she can understand my point. “Okay,” I say, trying a new tack, “imagine my state of mind was…” I grope the reluctant soap off the bottom of the tub and hold it tight, in a two-handed fist, “…hidden from you. I have these feelings which only I can think and feel. And I call this hidden thing ‘my feelings.’ ”
I open my hands for her to see now, the soap newly minted, scalloped that is with the inverse of my clasp. I reclench my hands around it.
“Give it back,” she says.
“It wouldn’t matter what I called it. It could be pain, might end up being red soap, or green soap, or—”
She opens my hands again, folding my fingers back, gently, one by one, and takes back the soap, fully mashed. Haggard smile.
“You have trouble remembering words?” she asks.
“No.”
“When did you first notice?”
“I remember words, obviously.”
“Do you have trouble remembering in general?”
“No.”
“What about names?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“Can you tell me who is who here? At Alterburg?”
“Wait, did you say—”
“Who else do you know?”
“Who…dammit. Dennis. Mr. Al’Hatif…You, Miss Fairfax. Me, Percy.”
She shrugs, and continues to sponge my back, though the tempo has decreased, such that I would describe the sopping and scrubbing of me as “idle.”
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